blood on the first four knuckles (i spend my slice of forever)
by possibilist
Summary: "Quinn's hands are graceful. But one day you notice a black bruise blooming across the back of her hand, skating blue around the edges. It's a lake, and you wonder what monsters are hiding in that contained flood. You don't know why the bruises are happening. You want to ask but you have never been that brave." or, ten times rachel notices quinn's hands. current headcanon drabble.


[Quinn's hands are graceful, like the rest of her is graceful, pretty, pale, gentle, harsh. But one day you notice a black bruise blooming across the back of her hand, skating blue around the edges. It's a lake, and you wonder what monsters are hiding in that contained flood. You don't know why the bruises are happening. You want to ask but you have never been that brave. or, ten times rachel notices quinn's hands. headcanon drabble.]

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**blood on the first four knuckles (i spend my allotted slice of forever contemplating the moment)**

.

_perhaps i'm addressing you whose need to write verse, to score lines into silence, to drum your fingers into the dark, rises in you a tangible way, like a tonic, an act of self-healing, a way how not to feel inadequate, empty, forsaken, ill.  
_—glyn maxwell, _on poetry_

…

_1_

You notice the messiness of her hands senior year, and it's so startling you wonder if you'd never noticed before or if this is new.

The worst part of you hopes it's new.

Quinn's hands are graceful, like the rest of her is graceful, pretty, pale, gentle, harsh. But one day you notice a black bruise blooming across the back of her hand, skating blue around the edges. It's a lake, and you wonder what monsters are hiding in that contained flood.

The bruises continue. They fade to green and then yellow and then reappear again; dams bursting, flooding, mending.

One day, during "We Are Young," you lace your fingers with hers, so quickly so doesn't flinch away.

You don't know why the bruises are happening. You want to ask but you have never been that brave.

.

_2_

There are four stitches in the palm of her left hand.

Stigmata, you think she would tell you. Stigmata, Rachel, penance. Always penance.

When Quinn wakes up but not really wakes up, her fingers twitch.

You don't know what she is guilty of, guilty for, but her brain is swimming in her own blood, and her eyes stay closed, and she doesn't actually repent for anything.

.

_3_

There are lists on her hand. Always, every day. Her palms are rubbed raw from pushing her chair until she gets calluses. Until her skin toughens. She doesn't wear gloves.

You want desperately to apologize for them, for the damage to her beautiful brain, how she still hasn't felt enough, how you can't understand.

Quinn is not the only one who always wants to pay penance.

.

_4_

Her left hand shatters against your wall.

It feels like she slapped you again, when she cradles it to her chest, wracking sobs, and says, I'm so sorry.

You can't do this anymore, you can't stay, you cannot save her.

Her knuckles are bleeding, the back of her hand at a strange angle, mountains jumping between the blue life of her veins.

You leave. You do the thing that will ultimately save the two of you but right now it feels cowardly, it feels_ wrong_: you don't know how to hold her hand like this.

.

_5_

You can't look at her wrist.

You spend months avoiding it, glancing away when the sleeve of her sweater slips up when she's talking over coffee, pretending to check your phone when the braided and gold bracelets she wears to cover it separate.

You can't look at her wrist because when you'd found out you hadn't been able to hug her for weeks. You hadn't even really been able to cry.

Today you sit down next to her on the couch where she's waiting for you so you can start the movie with a gentle smile. It is autumn, and perhaps it's because the leaves look like her eyes, and perhaps it's because she has healed so much you think you're probably going to spend the rest of your life with her—for the first time you are brave.

You take her hand gently; she doesn't look away. You slide back the sleeve of her Yale hoodie. The scar is darker than her skin, red-tinged-purple. You trace it from the bottom of her wrist to the crook of her elbow.

She doesn't cry. You do.

These are the things you want to know how to say: I forgive you, you are beautiful, stay with me forever.

You tell her, I love you, instead.

She shudders a gentle exhale and says it back.

.

_6_

It was safety pins, she says. The bruises. I used to stick safety pins through my hands.

It makes you want to throw up. You should have asked.

You don't know what to say now because what would you have done with the answer?

Please don't leave, she whispers.

Her hair is shiny in the moonlight through the window, cheeks silvery with silent tears. You've commandeered two of her drawers at her apartment; you have slept in her bed for the past week.

Quinn, you say.

You take her left hand, bones straight and healed, and hold on tight.

You kiss her once, fervently, saltwater and roses, and you tell her, I'm not going anywhere.

.

_7_

You get home from a show and she's fallen asleep at her desk in front of her laptop.

She's written a poem that ends on, _one day they tore down the temple, the arches felt too much. they made the words in my hands tremble. & _please, _& will you absolve me of my marrow, will you tell me i'm forgiven_

You wake her up, and you're crying, and she stands and kisses you holy. Kisses you so gently the bottom of your spine aches.

Yes, you say, you're forgiven for everything, baby, you say.

She kisses you again. Your palms throb.

.

_8_

You get home from a show and she's asleep in bed, hands curled up in fists against her chest.

She wakes with a jolt, a quick intake of breath, a little while later—you hadn't gone to sleep—and starts sleepily crying, quietly pushing back the covers and getting out of bed.

You hear the television turn on, something on Discovery Channel. You follow and Quinn is balled up on the couch. You turn on the kettle and make her a hot cup of blue eyes herbal tea, bring it to her. She sits up and gets out, Thank you, roughly, quietly, and she nods when you stand, unsure, next to the couch.

It's not good for either of your backs, but you spend the night there, pressed together, hearts beating the same speed.

.

_9_

You bind her hands behind her back with rough rope she'd brought home this afternoon, hesitantly showing it to you.

The gag, which is actually a Chanel scarf, is pulled tight, tied around her head.

She folds her hands together like she's praying, eyes squeezed shut, when you press your body up against all of her scars. She's close, she's been close for a while.

You deserve to come, baby, you tell her.

She cries when she does. You trace the rope burns reverently afterward, and she kisses you like she's never been scalded at all.

.

_10_

She meets you for a late lunch after her therapy session, which you've made habit as often as possible; you'd had an interview for an upcoming film and then you'd run to J Crew to pick up a new Italian cashmere sweater for her, just as a treat.

She's at the restaurant when you get there, drinking a class of white wine.

When you sit down she smiles at you; you can tell she'd cried: her eyes are surrounded a bit by red, even though her makeup is impeccable. She reaches for your hand. You notice the knuckles on her left hand are rubbed raw, and the raised space below her ring diamond engagement ring is split open, bleeding slightly.

You think Quinn Fabray—your fiance, the smartest, most damaged and beautiful and warm and resilient human you know, with the sillest laugh and the sweetest lips—will always, at times, make your heart seize up in your chest.

Later you will very carefully spread Neosporin over her knuckles and wrap them carefully in bandaids, tape them diligently so they won't slip from her broken skin.

For now you say, Baby, very softly, and she shrugs. There is sometimes this heavy weight of shame you can see press her shoulders down.

It was rough this morning and I boxed and I didn't notice, she tells you in a quiet rush.

You smile very softly, because, I know, you tell her.

She swallows. Sometimes I still hate my hands, she admits.

It empties the air from your lungs, and the only thing you can do is lift her hand to your lips. You kiss forgiveness into her palm, you kiss suture into her knuckles. You are not scared of her blood.

You have learned: Quinn, you say, I love your hands.


End file.
